BAKER STREET SOS
by lavaignited
Summary: In the final days before John and Mary's wedding, John recieves an urgent text message from Sherlock. Johnlock.


I was just leaving work when a text from Sherlock sent me tearing like a red-faced hurricane through a crowd of homebound Londoners. I plowed through a throng of irritable businessmen and sensibly dressed women, whose darkly painted lips were pursed with anger. "Sorry," I panted, mostly to the pretty ones; "Very sorry."

By the time I turned the corner at Baker Street, the reds and pinks of dusk were at their richest; but I'd abandoned all my senses and preoccupations to focus on Sherlock. My thoughts zoomed like bullets in every which direction and I began to sweat despite the cold. _What's happened?, _I thought,_ Is he hurt? Am I too late? _

_BAKER STREET. SOS._

That's all he had written. No detail. Not even a signature, which is the part that threw me most. Sherlock Holmes was known to leave his trademark "S.H." at the end of every message, even if the recipient had long ago saved his number. I had run so furiously that I ceased to feel the ground and it felt as if someone had run a drill into my side. When at last I arrived at 221B, I clung to the railing for dear life as I wormed my way up the stairs, praying I wouldn't have to engage in combat. Unable to form a proper first, I tackled the door and found that it opened before me.

I crashed face-first into a man's chest, whose weight hardly shifted at the impact. _"Are you okay?"_ I whispered to it, recognizing its light scent as Sherlock's. I pushed myself off him and squinted to assess the damage which I so dreaded to behold. Eventually, though, the black dots of my vision cleared to reveal a perfectly safe and healthy Sherlock. I was flooded with equal amounts of fury and relief. Sherlock nodded slowly, exuding a strange air of affection as he grabbed hold of my arm.

"_What?_" I hissed, my voice reaching unfamiliar depths. Not only did was he fine, but his blue eyes gleamed with joy. It was the sweetest mood I'd seen him in since the Henderson triple murder. I noticed that his hand was on the knob and promptly pointed it to. "Standing by the fucking _door?_" I slurred, "Standing by the door…" I shook my head, fuming. I deduced at this point that he had not, in fact, called for help at all. His grin was that of a schoolgirl with a juicy secret, likely about some clever serial killer. He'd been standing at the door when I arrived, unable to contain his teeming excitement. I'd begun to feel it myself, but I dare not show it.

"Well, that's not hard to explain; I heard your bustling and heavy breathing downstairs and concluded that it was either you or a lusty drunkard. You, however, have a distinct tendency to skip the first step. I heard 16 sounds in your ascension instead of the typical 17 and rushed to the door to greet you." He said in a single breath.

"Why would a lusty drunkard come to Baker Street?" I asked, contorting my face in feigned disgust.

"I was only joking," he said, "But you really should be careful about that first step. I don't want you to trip." He let out a nervous giggle, to which I furrowed my brow. His kind disposition was so foreign to me that I almost found it frightening. A heavy silence followed which I hoped he would fill with an explanation. He didn't. His smile quavered and died before me, but his countenance will still firmly set to puppy-dog.

"Sherlock, why did you text me?"

"I'm sick."

"You don't look sick."

"But I am."

"Somehow I don't think you are."

"You're getting married, John."

"Yes, so?"

"I'm sick because you're getting married."

The sentiment brought our brief banter to a screeching halt. I eyed him hesitantly, floundering for a response. I played the words again, searching for their actual meaning. Surely I misunderstood. "Take medicine." I intoned coolly. "You're my best man. You've got to be well for the wedding."

His gaze was unrelenting. His face was frozen in a soft delirium; with eyes like ice with rims of gold and lips slightly ajar. His intensity was strangely seductive. When I felt his slow, hot breathing on the bridge of my nose it occurred to me how close our faces were. I writhed in confusion, but Sherlock's confident look at once silenced my worries.

He rested his large hand on my forearm, and slid it slowly down until his spidery fingers closed around my wrist. His eyelids relaxed ever so slightly and his tilted head drifted closer to mine. I remembered Mary and felt bad about the swift and furious beating of my heart; but that and all the rest of the world disappeared when at last we were an inch apart. I watched as he gently adjusted his face to meet my lips at just the right angle, and I allowed my lids to flutter shut.

The feel of his lips on mine was a fiery sensation that surged outward from my mind. I'd always known that Sherlock was sexy, and that my feelings for him as a friend transcended those which I felt for anyone else. I never suspected, though, that those feelings would translate to sexual desire. His hands cupped my face and the room became hotter as friction increased. I slipped my hands beneath his jacket and felt his firm muscles poking against the thin fabric of his shirt. After a split second's thought, I tore his jacket off and felt at the marvel that was his chiseled body beneath his skin-tight button-up as we moved toward the sofa.

I didn't recall losing my coat, but nevertheless it had disappeared and Sherlock was now removing my tie and unbuttoning my shirt as he caught his breath. "I love you, John." He breathed, tossing my clothes aside. He kissed my neck, then; he dragged his lips along my bare shoulder and I let my face rest in his soft curls which smelled of the shampoo we both used to use. I softly kissed his head. "I've always loved you. These past two years, all the grief and pain that I endured... it was all for you, John. You know that, right?"

I unbuttoned the last of his shirt and slowly opened my eyes. I gasped. Beneath Sherlock's clothes he hid a wilderness of scars. His pale skin was torn and fragile, and I felt afraid to touch it. He cautiously sat himself up. I peered over at his slumped back which held the same brutal marks. I was heartbroken to think that they might be there because of me. As I lay there, examining his wounds with the greatest of delicacy, a teardrop fell onto my wrist.

Sherlock's desperation was tangible. I'd never seen him cry and didn't quite know how to respond to it. He eyes, rimmed with pink, blinked their tears away and called to me for help. "_Please_, John." He pleaded. "Please don't get married." I took in his fragile state and tearfully thought back on the times we'd had together. Sherlock Holmes was always the subject of my deepest affections. He was the source of my strength and the very embodiment of the spirit of adventure. He was strong and wise and had shown me more devotion than I could ever hope for in anyone else.

I leaned in and kissed him. His tense features softened and I rested my forehead upon his, clutching his hand in mine. I kissed him again and nestled into him. His body curled around me and I was engulfed in his warmth; in his immense presence. I never wanted to leave. This was a tremendous decision, so I offered him the only words that I could be absolutely sure of in that moment: "I love you."

I awoke when I felt a tapping on my shoulder. Mary wore a red coat and a warm smile, and with a tired sort of amusement she pointed at her watch. "It's time to go now, dreamer." She whispered sweetly. I rose, quite shaken, and grabbed my coat. She laughed quietly and rubbed my back. As I opened the door for her, she rose to her tiptoes and whispered into my ear: "I love you, too."

Torn by the dreadful sense that I'd betrayed her, I followed. In spite of it all being a dream, I so vividly recalled seeing Sherlock's scars and feeling his tears as they trickled onto my skin. "_It was all for you, John." ,_he'd said. He'd told me he loved me; he'd kissed my lips and let me see him cry. The dream had left me hollow and wishing myself far away from my reality.

Mary danced on down the hall and hummed a wedding tune.


End file.
